Today's Stichomancy for P Diddy

like the tongue of a wagon. He caught something harder than a blanket and pulled out a fearful thing--a shapeless, muddy bunch of leather tied together with wire and twine. From its ragged end, like the head and claws of a disturbed turtle, protruded human toes.

"Who-ee!" yelled Long Collins. "Ranse, are you a-packin' around of corpuses? Here's a--howlin' grasshoppers!"

Up from his long slumber popped Curly, like some vile worm from its burrow. He clawed his way out and sat blinking like a disreputable, drunken owl. His face was as bluish-red and puffed and seamed and cross-lined as the cheapest round steak of the butcher. His eyes were swollen slits; his nose a pickled beet; his hair would have made the

Heart of the West

"Yes; we must have it over," replied Dave, getting up with a brave, effort. Truly, if he carried that determined front to his lady-love he would look like a masterful lover. But when he got to the door he did not at all resemble a conqueror.

"You're sure she--cares for me?" asked Dave, for the hundredth time. This time, as always, his friend was faithful and convincing.

"I know she does. Go--hurry. I tell you I can't stand this any longer," cried George, pushing Dave out of the door.

"You won't go--first?" whispered Dave, clinging to the door.

"I won't go at all. I couldn't ask her--I don't want her--go! Get out!"

Dave started reluctantly toward the adjoining cabin, from the open window of

The Spirit of the Border

And out of which, to my content, I netted seventy-five per cent.; Here at this board of jolly neighbours, I reap the credit of my labours. These were the days - I will say more - These were the grand old days of yore! The builder laboured day and night; He watched that every brick was right:

The decent men their utmost did; And the house rose - a pyramid! These were the days, our provost knows,

imagination mingles its bewitching colouring, must be fostered by delicacy. I should despise, or rather call her an ordinary woman, who could endure such a husband as I have sketched.

These appear to me (matrimonial despotism of heart and conduct) to be the peculiar Wrongs of Woman, because they degrade the mind. What are termed great misfortunes, may more forcibly impress the mind of common readers; they have more of what may justly be termed stage-effect; but it is the delineation of finer sensations, which, in my opinion, constitutes the merit of our best novels. This is what I have in view; and to show the wrongs of different classes of women, equally oppressive, though, from the difference of